Free March Toward the Thunder by Joseph Bruchac Page A

a line between my chest and my belly button. Us bugs propose to fight it out for control of this human’s blood.
    "Any questions?” Lieutenant O’Connell asked in a bright voice. Louis knew that was his name now. He’d just caught a glimpse of it on the piece of paper the young officer had pinned to his chest.
    Lieutenant Michael O’Connell, Corcoran Legion, it read in a bold hand.
    Just three days ago he would have wondered why a man would do a thing such as that. Now, though, he knew.
    Print your name and your unit on a piece of paper and fasten it to your uniform. That way if you get killed, those who pick up your body’ll know who you belonged to.
    Louis rubbed his chest. He couldn’t bring himself to pin a sign on himself that way. He hadn’t even written the sort of letter a good many men always carried into battle in their pocket addressed To My Dear Wife or For My Mother .
    "Well,” Lieutenant O’Connell said again, “no questions?”
    None at all.
    Must be , Louis thought, they know what salient and enfilade mean. Unlike me. Louis leaned his back against the earth of the trench. Then again, he considered, though I might not be able to parse out such fine military words, I know the meaning of it all. Tomorrow morning me and the others in Company E are getting sent out again to get shot at.
    He was only partially right. They didn’t wait until the morning. Sergeant Flynn lined them up before nightfall. Corporal Hayes stood at his sergeant’s left shoulder. As was always the case when Hayes was paying special attention and expecting every man to do the same, the corporal’s right hand was on his chin, his thumb stroking his well-trimmed red mustache.
    â€œPack up yer gear, lads,” Flynn said. “We’re to take a bit of a walk in the dark. And, for the love of all the powers of heaven, be as silent as little mice. Nolette, seeing as how ye have the eyes and ears of an owl, ye’ll be leading us out.”
    The sergeant paused to scratch his left forearm. Then he cursed and swatted his shoulder.
    Fleas , Louis thought. Lice don’t move that fast.
    â€œAnd where might we be going, you ask? Well, we and the rest of the Irish Brigade will wade across the lovely river there,” Flynn pointed, his index and middle finger held together like the barrel of a pistol, “and then make our way on up to that hilltop to the right of the bulge in the enemy lines. The whole of Second Corps behind us. Sure and if the luck of the Irish is with us, we’ll have a few thousand rifles pouring lead into the Rebels from the side when the Sixth Corps attacks their middle at dawn.”
    The sergeant lifted up his beefy hand as if in benediction, though his sausagy fingers were quite unlike the delicate digits of the company chaplain. “Saints preserve ye.”
    Then he was off. Corporal Hayes nodded at them once, stroked his mustache, and followed Flynn.
    Scarecrow Dedham took off his cap to scratch the straw yellow cowlick that always stood up like a rooster’s comb when he was bareheaded.
    â€œI swan. What’d all that mean?” the lanky farm boy said, a confused look on his face. Scarecrow was always the one who had the hardest time figuring out Flynn’s flowery speeches.
    â€œIt means,” Happy Smith growled, “we’re going out to get our heads blown off in the dark.”
    Scarecrow grinned over at him. “You are a right caution, Happy,” he said, poking his friend in the ribs.
    For some reason, though their personalities were like night and day, Dedham and Smith were almost always together now. Louis had no doubt that would be true tonight. Like David and Jonathan in the Bible, Scarecrow and Happy would be side by side, watching each other’s back, even in the darkest dark.
    And the night that settled in proved to be just that dark. No moon or stars could be seen, blocked out by the clouds that had begun